Inkblot Sky

Yesterday, for soccer, the sky cleared up and the sun shone through for the two hours it took to run around and wear ourselves out. The instant I got back on the road, the rain returned. It was a simple thing, but I'm thankful God broke through the clouds long enough for sunlight to warm us as we ran, and the sunset purpling, mantling the clouds along the rim of the world was a splendid end to my day. 

When the sun finally set, the clouds formed a thin stratus over the heavens, an inkblot in which my mind perceived all sorts of strange symbols: a beating heart, a raven, Edgar, even a cask; a pearl, a pony, John; a whale Herman, and the sea; an old man rowing a boat, Ernest; shadows on the wall, Plato; a pond, peaceful and deep, Henry David; but mostly I saw a giant moth, eternal and subsuming all the light above and below in its cavernous wingspan, but at the edges of its expanse, I saw the dark-light-blue twilight whose colors melted my heart like a tropical ocean at night - so clear and pure and perfect.

there is a dancing of hearts at night

and a singing of stars

and though try the clouds might

they cannot eliminate

what's essentially ours